The Great River
by Keegan Elizabeth
Summary: The story starts with 10x01 and follows along closely to the happenings within the episode, but from there… the story takes and makes its own path. G/S with Sara/Nick friendship


A/N: A thank you to Tiffany, for her encouragement and advice, and to Florence, for the French help. The last story I wrote was angst, now the first piece back is angst. In a crazy messed up way it somehow sort-of feels right.

The story concept came after watching the first few epis of S10, and I started writing it around November… wrote up until the very last scene, then life… took a turn. This year's not been the best, and inspiration (and finding time to complete anything) has been lacking. I'm not sure I'm 'back' to writing, really. I might post 3 more times within the next couple of months, or I may not post anything else for another 6 months. I'm not sure, but I know that I appreciate you reading this story, and for those of you who are still hoping for an update of one of my WIPs, I'm glad you're still interested and I hope to get back to them at some point.

Disclaimer: No ownership is meant or implied by writing this story. Neither CSI nor its characters belong to me.

* * *

She lands at McCarran International in the early morning hours, just as the sun begins to bathe the Vegas sky in watery shades of pink, yellow, and orange.

Having already slept a little on the plane combined with the nervous energy she feels from being back again, she realizes she's far too restless to try and sleep anymore or to be on her own.

Decision made, she retrieves her bags from the luggage carousel before making her way through the frenzied maze to the airport's exit. She finds a place to stay for the coming night and drops off her things.

Her next stop: the Vegas Crime Lab.

* * *

"Uh, hi, guys. This a bad time?" she asks, a smile framing her face as she takes in Catherine and Nick's mutual expressions of shock, and one of quiet curiosity from who she assumes can only be the new guy, Langston.

"Look who came back again!" Nick exclaims as she enters the break room. "Sara Sidle, or are you going by Mrs. Grissom these days?" His face breaks out into a wide grin just before he pulls her into a tight embrace. "It's great to see you."

"Thanks, you too," she says. She holds onto him a couple seconds longer before letting go and stepping back.

Langston comes forward next and extends his hand, formally introducing himself.

"Well, this is quite the surprise. What are you doing here?" Catherine speaks last, since her mind's still trying to play catch up from the sudden turn of events. "It seems like we just got a postcard from Grissom telling us that you two were in the Peruvian Selva," she stops suddenly when she realizes that since Sara's in Vegas, Grissom should be too. "Where is he, anyway? I bet he's checking out his office, isn't he? Seeing what's been changed—"

"It's just me, sorry," Sara breaks in before Catherine gets too excited. "And actually we're in Paris now, or well I was… I came back to help. Didn't Ecklie tell you?"

"No." Her brow furrows a bit in concentration as she recalls the brief conversation she had with Ecklie in the hallway yesterday. "Yeah, he did. Sort of. He told me he was adding another CSI to my shift, and when I replied I didn't have time to train anybody new, he said not to worry because this one's been around the block and we would get along fine."

"Really 'been around the block'? I wouldn't have put it that way, but that's… that sounds like Ecklie." Sara shrugs. It's not like she expected him to roll out the red carpet for her when she came back, even if he had been the one to ask for her help. "I need to go talk with him before I leave, sign some papers. By start of next shift, I'll be back and able to work."

Less than ten minutes later, after she's been brought up to speed on their latest case – an upcoming Hollywood starlet killed in a vehicular accident – and given promises to catch up more later, they leave her standing alone in the break room to return to their work, just as Greg appears striding down the hallway coming her way.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, she's trying her best to remember how to breathe through her mouth, as she and Nick sort through what's left of James Hamilton.

She really doesn't want to get sick her first day back. Not just for the principle, but because when Nick teased her earlier by saying he hoped she wouldn't throw up, she had lied and said the smell really wasn't that bad.

"Sara, you're staying at a hotel?"

She's busy trying to separate metals from inorganic materials and answers him distractedly. "Mhm, yeah."

"Why don't you stay at my place? At least until you figure out what you want to do in terms of living arrangements. I've got a guest bedroom that never gets used, and I know Bruno misses you."

At the mention of the canine she and Gil had rescued from the pound, she looks up and her eyes soften.

"You'll have the place to yourself most of the time too. I started seeing someone a few weeks back, and I usually end up staying at her place." When she doesn't say anything right away, Nick continues with a grin, "I don't think Gris would mind. I mean I can call him, talk to him man-to-man, you know."

She shakes her head, and accepts. "No, it sounds fine. Great, actually. Thanks."

"Not a problem. After we finish here, we can pick your bags up at the hotel and take 'em over to my place. Get you settled in and all that; maybe grab breakfast if you're hungry."

She nods in agreement, before shifting her attention back to the remains in front of her.

The next several minutes pass by as they work together in relative silence.

She's trying her best to imagine being in a field of fragrant flowers, but fails miserably. By the sound of Nick's disgusted _Ugh_, the smell's getting to him too.

He glances up and meets her gaze. Their smiles quickly change to laughter, because she realizes she's just been busted for her earlier fib.

Seconds later, Langston bursts in the room with Catherine and Greg hot on his heels. "James Hamilton swallowed something when O'Neill…"

* * *

She talks with Grissom later that morning.

_I've missed you_ is the first thing he says.

She smiles. "I haven't been gone but two days."

_It seems longer. How was your first day back?_

She silently debates whether or not she should tell him all the details, leaving out certain pertinent parts like getting shot at, but it's _him_ and she can't stand the thought of secrets between them. Not anymore.

"Eventful wouldn't begin to describe it," she admits. She goes on to give him a brief rundown of everything that happened during her first shift back, while trying to downplay the being fired at incident.

It doesn't quite work out as well as she had hoped it would, and she spends several minutes trying her best to calm his fears and reassure him that she's okay.

"I promise there are no bumps, bruises, or cuts anywhere on me."

_Sara._ Pause. Silence. Then finally, _promise me you'll take care of yourself. Being so far away— _

"I love you," she interrupts quietly, and then repeats the sentiment in French. "Je t'aime."

_Je t'aime ma chérie . Toujours.

* * *

_

Two more days come and go before she and Catherine finally grab a bite after shift.

"Sorry we didn't get to do this sooner. Things were a bit hectic with the high profile case," Catherine says. After reading Riley's exit review though, she would admit she had been grateful for any reason to postpone the get together.

"No problem. It worked out well since I went back to my hotel room and crashed until it was time to get up for work." She leans forward a little in the booth, twisting her body slightly left then right.

"You okay?" Catherine asks.

"Yeah, just trying to work out a kink." Seeing their waitress head toward their table, Sara moves her glass of water out of the way. "Thank you," she says when the girl sets down her plate of pancakes with a side order of scrambled eggs and hash browns.

"Anything else I can get you two?"

Sara looks at Catherine for confirmation before replying. "No. Everything looks great, thanks."

Catherine picks up her mug of still-hot coffee with both hands, blowing slightly before taking a couple of small sips and returning it to the table. The sun's pouring in through the open slats of the blinds and she watches the light catch and reflect off of Sara's engagement and wedding rings, causing them to sparkle.

"I still can't believe you're married now," Catherine says, using the fork she's just picked up to point to Sara's rings.

Sara's lips curve upward, as she lowers her gaze to her left hand. "Sometimes I can't either."

"And what's more," Catherine continues, "you had us find out through email. If you hadn't sent along that picture, I'm not sure we would have believed it. I guess we all thought you weren't really traditional…"

"With Gil… with him, it's always been different." Sara says it quietly and simply, before turning away to look out the window. She doesn't even have to close her eyes to picture his smiling face and his bright blue eyes staring back at her.

Catherine allows a few moments to pass, saying nothing until Sara redirects her attention to her meal.

"You know we're all really happy for you and Grissom, right?"

"I know," she acknowledges with a nod.

"Good. So now the honeymoon." Catherine grins. "Only you two would decide that hiking in the Amazon rainforest in Brazil and Peru would constitute an actual honeymoon. I mean, me, I would have chosen a different locale. The Greek Isles, the French Riviera. Somewhere I could work on my tan."

"You can work on your tan in the rainforest."

"Yeah, while sweating. No, thank you. I rather have an ocean to dip my toes into when I get too hot and one of those girly drinks brought to me whenever I want one, you know the ones I'm talking about, the ones with the colorful little umbrellas and fruit sticking out of them." Catherine sighs as the image springs to her mind. "Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Sara just laughs in response.

It's sometime later, after she's finished eating her omelet, that Catherine notices Sara's plate still looking rather full. "You've barely eaten anything. Are you not feeling well?"

"No, I'm fine. I couldn't decide at first, and I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach," Sara admits, while she reaches for a napkin to wipe away imagined crumbs from her mouth.

"Lindsey's horrible about doing that too."

"Lindsey, oh that reminds me actually. Don't let me forget but I have a few souvenirs for her from Paris." When she sees Catherine starting to grin, she begins to feel a little self-conscious. "What?"

"Sorry, I'm just trying to get over the change."

"The change?" Sara echoes.

"I was thinking about when you first showed up in Vegas. You barely just arrived and it was Lindsey's birthday. You asked something about what the rule was, how long until you had to start buying her something..." She can hardly believe that nearly a decade has passed since then.

"Well, Gil was the one who thought about it first, but I picked everything out. We picked you up a little something too."

"Now we're really talking," Catherine says, grinning widely.

* * *

She's been having trouble falling asleep since arriving in Vegas six days ago, but once her eyes finally close and her mind quiets down, she's completely out and won't wake once.

It's a little after nine p.m. and she's only been awake the last fifteen minutes. She lies in bed, the covers tossed halfway across her body, half fallen to the floor and talks to Gil.

_Sleepyhead_, he teases, after she confesses she slept almost eleven hours.

"Maybe my body's just trying to recuperate from you keeping me up…"

_I believe the keeping up, as you say, was quite mutual._

She hears the smile in his voice and wants to reach out and touch him. Instead she laughs softly. "What are you doing now?" she asks. She pictures him in a pair of boxers and socks, shuffling across the hardwood floor of their Parisian apartment, while pale sunlight and the sounds of a city awakening below begin to stream in through an opened window.

_I am making tea, then I'll look over my lecture notes before heading to the University_, he replies before starting to yawn.

"You sound tired. Did you not rest well?" she asks, moving to sit up and lean against the headboard.

_The bed feels empty without you._ He says it with such sincerity and ease that it nearly brings tears to her eyes.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come."

_I thought we talked about this._

"We did. You didn't want me to, remember?"

_That was _before_, and it was only because I was being selfish. I knew I would miss you. _

"I don't know why I thought this was a good idea."

_Because the team needed you, and somewhere inside of you right now, you know that you need them._

"I need _you_."

_You have my heart, Sara. You'll always have me.

* * *

_

Her third case back pairs her with Greg, investigating the discovery of a decomposed female body found off the side of Boulder Highway.

She runs into Greg just as he exits the DNA lab.

"Perfect timing, I was about to come find you," he says. "Wendy's still processing evidence but promises to page as soon as she gets a hit. Meanwhile, I've narrowed down the tire treads from the scene and they belong to a Toyota Highlander, '01 model. Any luck on the ID yet?"

"Yeah, just talked with Brass," Sara begins, "he got a hit off of AFIS, le nom de la victime est Susan Ellison. Selon des rapports, elle est portée disparue depuis deux ans, ce qui pourrait expliquer l'état dans lequel nous avons trouvé son corps—"

"Sara?" Greg stops suddenly, bringing her to a halt and almost causing her to run into him.

"Oui, quoi?"

"We're not in Paris anymore," Greg reminds her, with an amused grin. "I don't speak French either."

She looks confused for half a second, then lets out a short laugh, feeling heat rise quickly to her cheeks. "Sorry, I guess my mind's still halfway around the world." She smiles a little too brightly. "Anyway I uh, was saying that the victim's name is Susan Ellison, and according to records, she's been missing for two years—"

"Which helps to explain the condition her body was in when we found her," he concludes.

"Exactly. I've got her last known address as well as the address of her boyfriend at the time…"

* * *

The next night is her night off, and it's Greg's as well. When he learns that her plans for the evening consist of staying in and nothing more, he tells her that she's contractually obligated to go out with him and have a fun night.

"We haven't had a chance to just catch up, you and me bonding time."

She gives him a look that clearly says _then what do you call what we've been doing?_

"Well, without a dead body between us," he amends quickly. "And just because you're married now doesn't mean you have to become _boring_ and stay at home all the time."

"Greg, I did that before I got married. I like staying in, which for your information does not mean I'm boring. Gil and I are perfectly happy to just sit on the couch and—"

"Hey now, I don't need details of what happens on that couch." Greg grins mischievously.

She shakes her head at him, even as she thinks about how much she has missed him. She could always count on him to make her laugh. "Don't worry, I wasn't going to. Some things are best kept private."

Eight o'clock the next evening, Greg arrives at Nick's place to pick her up since he offered to do all the night's driving.

"So what are we doing tonight?" she asks, once they're on the road.

"I thought we could go eat, maybe afterward check out a few tattoo parlors." He steals a glance at her and flashes a quick grin.

"Tattoo parlors… interesting. Maybe I should get another one. What do you think?"

He thinks he's glad they're stopped at a red light because he definitely was not expecting that answer to come from her mouth, especially since he can't tell if she's being serious or not. "I was kidding, Sara. You know, haha. I'm not taking you to a tattoo parlor."

"Hmm, too bad."

* * *

A night later, she returns to work. She's walking down the hallway when Catherine turns the corner, coming her way.

"Sara, hey. Is that evidence?"

"What?"

Catherine points to the dress in the clear plastic garment bag that she's holding.

"No, it's mine. I just bought the dress and wanted to show it to you, to somebody… to get an opinion on it." The smile she had on her face disappears when she notices the look on Catherine's face. "Sorry, not a good idea… wrong time, not appropriate…" She turns, ready to make her escape.

"Sara, wait a second." Catherine's voice stops her. "You just took me by surprise, that's all. Let me look. Please?"

A couple of seconds pass before Sara turns around again, holding the dress out for Catherine's inspection. "What do you think?"

"I think it's really quite fabulous. I bet it looks amazing on you too, especially that color." Later Catherine will wonder what shocked her more: seeing Sara holding a dress and talking about shopping or Sara asking for her opinion.

"Thanks."

"Are you planning to wear it next time you see Grissom? He'll really love it."

"Yeah, I hope so," Sara says. "Anyway I should probably return the dress to my car before shift starts. Be right back."

* * *

The following morning, she's on her way to see Hodges for trace results when Ecklie corners her.

"So you want to leave already then?"

"What makes you say that?" she asks.

"Catherine said something about how she thought you missed Grissom and wanted to see him." A couple of cops walk by and he turns to greet them before turning toward her again. "Listen, I know the only reason you finally said yes to coming back was because I agreed to let you commute back and forth, so…"

Less than seventy-two hours and six thousand miles later, she finds herself back in Paris.

* * *

He surprises her with breakfast in bed her first morning back, her favorite: freshly baked chouquettes purchased from the pâtisserie around the corner and a cup of hot chocolate that he just finished making.

She arrived the evening before late, so they decide to spend their first full day together lazily in bed. In between sweet, lingering kisses, he recites poetry to her, everything from Shakespeare to Yeats to Browning, and there's a quiet smile of contentment on her face as she listens.

The next day it's back to work for him; he has a lecture to teach and he lets her sleep in. When he returns she's dressed and ready to spend a quiet afternoon by his side strolling along the cobblestone streets.

By mid-afternoon they're in the first arrondissement, walking hand-in-hand through one of the many gardens found in Paris.

There is a comfortable silence that's settled between them, both of them content just to be in the other's presence again, and she almost regrets when he breaks the silence a few moments later.

_Do you want to sit down and rest for a moment?_ He motions to a couple of chairs just vacated. They're at le bassin du Jardin des Tuileries – a fountain located a few feet from the entrance to the Musée du Louvre.

"No, I'm fine, but let's just stand here for a little while." She's distracted by the sounds of laughter and squeals of joy from the younger children and she wants very much to stay a few moments and watch them. "It's such a beautiful day, isn't it?"

_Made more beautiful because you're here with me_, he whispers into her ear before pressing a soft kiss to her temple, causing her to sigh.

The children are down on their knees, surrounding the giant pond, leaning forward with little wooden sticks in their hands to push the brightly colored sailboats when they come their way again.

They stand next to each other, their shoulders touching, and watch the children as they play.

He turns to her and sees the smile on her face. She can feel his eyes on her and turns to look at him.

"What do you think?" she asks finally.

_What do I think about?_

"About us, having children… trying to start a family. Maybe not right now of course but… someday."

A young child runs past them, almost falling in her excitement and he reaches out quickly and catches the child before she hits the ground.

_Be careful_, he murmurs first in English then in French. The little girl with big beautiful blue eyes glances up and smiles shyly before running off again.

Sara laughs, drawing his attention back to her and reminding him of the question still lingering in the air between them.

_You are my family._ He sees her try to mask her disappointment before averting her gaze and gently he turns her to face him again, so that she can look into his eyes and see the truth in them for what he says next. _And if a little one comes along, making our family bigger, that's great too._

"You really mean that?"

_Yes. Maybe I've been afraid in the past to want things… you, having a life with you, but not anymore. I can't think of anything better than having a little girl with your eyes and your smile and holding her in my arms. _

"We could always have a son and name him after your father."

His eyes are bright with unshed tears, matching her watery smile and eyes. She loops her arms around his neck and stares up at him before brushing a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you," she says drawing back before leaning in to kiss him once again, "more than you'll ever know."

* * *

She sits in the living room alone and listens to the soft and steady sound of rain hitting the windows outside. She's wearing his Williams College sweatshirt, but she still feels a chill run through her.

All the lights are turned off, and the only luminance coming into the room is from the occasional lightning strike that casts everything in a soft pale glow before plunging the room into darkness again.

Her mind is elsewhere, so the sound of the front door opening and then closing doesn't even register. It's not until a bright light is turned on, startling her and causing her to jump, that she realizes she's no longer alone.

"Sara, hey sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. When did you get back?" Nick comes into view. "And why were you sitting in the dark?"

"I got in a few hours ago, and the lights were uh, bothering my eyes." She gets up from the couch, feeling a little stiff from sitting too long. The truth is when the room started darkening she just never bothered to get up and turn any lights on.

"Oh, sorry… let me dim them for you." After he does so, he says, "I hope you're not getting migraine headaches like Grissom these days, are you?"

"No," she says, "I'm fine."

"Nick, hey are we going to—" comes from the front door as it opens again. A young and very beautiful woman steps through the door before shutting it once more. "Sorry, I thought we were alone," she says with a warm smile, as she comes to stand next to Nick.

He quickly makes the introductions.

"Sara, Anna. And Anna, this is Sara, my coworker and good friend. She's the one who's been staying here at my place."

"Hi." Sara extends her hand to shake Anna's. "And you're the one keeping him away?" she asks with a smile.

"Guilty as charged." Anna laughs. "You just came back from Paris, right? I would love to go there…" she trails off and grins. "I guess everyone says that though. I bet it's beautiful."

"Paris is wonderful," Sara agrees. "I hope one day you'll be able to visit, you'll love it." She starts to yawn and covers her mouth quickly. "Sorry. Jet lag's catching up with me."

"Get some sleep," Nick tells her. "But later you'll have to fill me in on how the trip went and how Grissom's doing and everything."

She promises she will and tells Anna that it was nice to meet her before backing out of the living room and returning to her room.

She hasn't unpacked anything yet, so she strips down to her camisole and panties and crawls into bed. She hears a loud squeal coming from the living room followed by masculine laughter, and she reaches out for the extra pillow, pulling it close to her heart.

Her eyes close automatically, but she doesn't find sleep until hours later.

* * *

Two days later and she's back at the Crime Lab, working alongside of Greg again.

"Greg, what are we looking for?" she asks, as she looks up from a stack of paper.

He glances up to meet her gaze. "We're looking through Smith's bank statements trying to match restaurant purchases from the dates and times Lacey's roommates were able to tell us she went out with her mystery guy, plus we have a backlog of all the clothes and jewelry he purchased for her—"

"So if this guy was her sugar daddy, there's no way he didn't leave some kind of paper trail with the kind of money he was spending on her," she finishes. "Yeah, okay… that's right. Thanks."

Greg cocks his head slightly to the side and studies her face. "Are you okay, Sara?"

"Yeah, of course. Sorry about that, I guess I'm still suffering from a bit of jet lag and didn't realize it." She gives him a half-smile. "No worries though," she smiles more brightly, "I'm fine."

* * *

"Hey, Sara. Wait up."

She turns around to see Nick trailing behind her in the Lab's hallway. Four days have already passed since she returned from France. "Yeah?"

"How's Grissom?"

"What? He's fine. Really great actually," she answers.

"I guess he stays pretty busy and everything…"

"Of course he's busy. He's lecturing at the Sorbonne in Paris."

"I know that."

"Then what are you asking?"

"It's nothing really. It's just, I emailed Grissom a few days back to ask him a question about rove and Hister beetles and usually he responds quicker. You know him, he's always eager to talk about bugs and their life cycles and—"

"Well Nick, surprising or not," she interrupts him suddenly, "the world doesn't revolve around you. He receives countless emails, phone calls, requests… I'm sure he'll respond when he's got time."

Nick watches with a stunned face as she spins around quickly and walks away.

* * *

He passes by Ray, Ecklie, and Hodges and gives them a quick nod before strolling past. In the break room, he's happy to find Greg sitting by himself since he wanted to talk to him about Sara and tonight's her night off.

It's fifteen minutes before their work night officially starts and exactly three days after his 'talk' with Sara.

"Hey, Nick." Greg straightens up from his semi-slouched position in his chair. "How's it going?"

"Good, thanks." He takes the seat directly across from Greg. After a few more exchanges of small talk, Nick finally broaches the subject that's been plaguing him. "Has Sara seemed different to you?"

Since his discussion with Sara about Grissom not returning his email, he's tried to watch her more closely while still remaining discreet.

He's not sure why he is feeling this way, but something just isn't settling right with him. It's not as if he wants to or is comfortable digging into his friend's personal life, especially since he's sure she won't appreciate it. Still though, he can't shake the feeling that something's not entirely right, which is why he's decided to talk with Greg.

He thinks about how he caught her sitting in the dark when she returned from Paris, and what she said to him a few days ago. It really isn't pride that's talking, but it just seemed so unlike her. And another thing, he almost could swear that he caught her talking to herself the other day. Her voice had been low and he had been several feet away, so he couldn't be certain.

"What do you mean?" Greg asks, effectively pulling Nick's mind back to the moment.

"Just different. Anything, really." He doesn't want to give examples because maybe he's making a mountain out of a molehill like they say. Maybe the other day with Sara could be easily explained, like maybe she was just having a bad day. It happens.

"Well she did get married, and that's a pretty major life change. But I'm guessing that's not what you're talking about." Greg pauses as he tries to recall any incidents with Sara since she's returned to working at the Crime Lab. "Hmm, actually, something did happen shortly after she arrived—"

"What?"

"She was telling me some case details when she started speaking in French. She didn't realize it even, until I stopped her. She laughed it off and apologized. It wasn't really a big deal or anything."

"That's the only thing then?" Nick thinks it's something, but then again, there could just be another simple explanation. She had been living in Paris before arriving back in the States, so it made sense that she had become accustomed to conversing in another language. He knew she was already quite fluent because she had mentioned once that she'd taken French during her high school and college years.

"Uh, she talked about getting a tattoo, but I'm pretty sure she was joking. Then the other day we were working together and she asked me to remind her what we were looking for as we were going through some guy's credit and bank statements. She had just gotten back from Paris though, so the time difference and jet lag… I bet she was still just really tired. I would be."

"Yeah, that's probably what it was," Nick agrees. His face remains pensive though as he stores away the information Greg's given him to think about more at a later time.

"So now that I've finished answering your questions, why don't you tell me why you're asking them in the first place? Is something going on, Nick?"

"No." His answer is quick and definitive. When he sees Greg's still-questioning gaze, he concedes a little. "Not that I know of at least, let's just say I'm curious at the moment. But Greg, keep my questions and curiosity to yourself for now. Don't mention this conversation to anyone. Will you do that?"

A beat of silence passes between them and it looks almost as if Greg wants to say or ask something more, but finally he nods his head in agreement. "Sure, as long as you promise to let me know if your curiosity turns into something else?"

"Yeah, you don't even have to ask."

"All right. We're good then."

"By the way, have you heard from Grissom lately?" Nick asks, changing the topic from Sara to her husband.

"No, but Sara told me yesterday that Grissom said to tell everyone 'hi'. As far as I can tell she and Grissom talk every day, in some form or fashion. I know he's super busy at the Sorbonne and everything, and if I was him and I only had time to talk to one person, it would most definitely be my wife."

* * *

_Concentrate on what cannot lie: the evidence._

How many times had Grissom said some variation of that exact same sentiment over the years? He honestly doesn't know, since somewhere between year one and year two, he had lost count. Grissom's advice though had never seemed more important to listen to than it did right now.

Ever since Sara returned from Paris, she's acted strangely. Nothing that just jumped out saying 'hey something's going on' but enough little things have occurred to add up. It's entirely possible too that she had been acting different since she first arrived (almost a month ago) and he just hadn't noticed because he had been so wrapped up in his new romance with Anna.

And maybe it's because things have started to cool between him and Anna and he's been spending more time at his place that he has started to notice Sara's behavior more.

He still hasn't heard anything from Grissom, and every time he questions Sara she'll just say that he's doing great; they're doing great. And it's suddenly starting to sound like she's trying to make herself believe that. He can almost detect a slight hint of anxiety and edginess lacing the words as she speaks them.

It makes him think that maybe he isn't the only one with relationship troubles.

* * *

Nick doesn't want to bring up or say anything at work, so another two days come and go before he finds an opportunity to talk with Sara.

When she walks through the front door, he's just finished unloading the dishwasher.

"Hey, Sara," he says, coming out of the kitchen to greet her. "I was hoping to catch you here before we go into work tonight. I wanted to talk."

"Oh, can it wait? I was just going to—" she begins, walking past him so she can head to her room.

"No, I don't think so." He follows after her. "It's about Grissom."

"What about him?" she asks, stopping in the middle of the living room to turn and face him.

"Well, you and Gris actually." He takes a second to collect his thoughts, hoping he's doing the right thing before forging on. "I've been going back and forth, debating whether or not to say anything, and I know it's not really any of my business… but you have to know too that I consider you both good friends. Sara, maybe you want to sit down?" he suggests.

She shakes her head no.

"Okay then. I'm just going to come out and ask since I don't see the point in beating around the bush. Are you two having some kind of trouble?"

"What kind of trouble? We're fine, everything's great. I already told you that. And I don't know why you persist in thinking anything else..."

"Grissom hasn't answered any of my emails or calls, so I called the Sorbonne yesterday. And since I don't speak French, I tried using one of those Internet translation sites to help me ask some questions… I don't know if the translation was wrong or if whoever answered didn't know what they were talking about, but I think they said there was no Dr. Grissom working there which doesn't make any sense…"

Her back tenses up and she can actually feel it beginning to happen. She can feel the little pieces inside, the ones she's tried so hard to keep together, beginning to fracture and fall away.

"I don't know if he's working there still or not, but it really doesn't matter. None of us have heard anything from him since… well, since before you arrived actually. And you've been acting different lately, so if for some reason he left you—"

"No." Her voice is just a whisper, and he doesn't hear her. She's coming undone; the last tiny bit of whatever it was that was keeping her together finally breaks apart, breaking her.

"—and you two had a fight, I know you'll work it out with each other. He loves you. I'm sure if you just call him to talk and everything—"

"No," she says it again, this time with more force. "He didn't leave me. He did not leave me." Her voice has climbed a few octaves, her words shaky and straining with tiny traces of hysteria. Her face has lost all of its color, and her eyes look almost desperate.

He doesn't know what is going on with her and Grissom, but he's taken aback by the sudden and complete change in her body language and her voice. Apprehension quickly settles in his stomach.

"Okay," he says softly, "I believe you."

He starts to come near her – she's still repeating 'he didn't leave me' as if it's become her personal mantra – to try to offer some comfort when she turns abruptly and picks up a ceramic vase, throwing it at him.

She misses, just barely.

"Sara, what are you doing? It's all right, everything's okay—" He cautiously takes another step toward her.

"Stay away from me!" she yells at him, grabbing a glass bowl this time and smashing it a few feet from her. "Stay away, get out, get out. Get. Out." She picks up the other matching ceramic vase throwing it toward Nick. It hits the floor and shatters, only a few inches from where the other vase landed and broke.

He realizes that something most definitely is wrong, and he knows if he doesn't get Sara to calm down soon she's going to end up hurting herself.

"Stay away from me. Gil wouldn't like it. No, he wouldn't. I always knew you were jealous of him… you can't have me…"

He ignores all the words coming from her mouth, coming closer still as she sidesteps him. She's got a heavy bookend made of metal in her hands now, and he knows if she decides to throw it at him from the distance between them she might actually hit him. Knowing it would hurt like hell and that it just might knock him out, he still advances toward her until he's less than a foot away.

She's screaming, "Stay away from me, stay away from me… he didn't leave me, he didn't… leave me, stay away… away, please _please_ go away… just, just go," while tears are streaming down her cheeks and she has started shaking uncontrollably.

He's already taken the bookend from her and tossed it aside, before she even registers that he's holding her in his arms. She fights back against him and she makes these low sounds, these God-awful sounds like an animal trapped and crying out in pain, and his shirt's becoming soaked with the river of her tears.

She hits, she slaps, she kicks but he keeps his hold onto her through it all, even as they tumble to the floor and he has to brace their fall so he can take the brunt of it. She fights harder still against him, and he tightens his grip on her.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay… it's going to be all right," he says softly over the sounds of her sobs. "We'll figure it out. Don't hurt yourself, just let it out… just let it all out." He runs a hand up and down her back, making circular patterns, trying to soothe and comfort.

His mind's racing and bewildered, and he's feeling a lot more than just concerned about Sara. When he feels her finally sag against him, he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. Her sobs have become muffled against his chest and he continues to hold her close while whispering promises to her that everything will be fine. He doesn't know how many seconds, minutes, or hours may have passed but at last her cries grow quiet and her shaking grows still.

He isn't sure what happened between her and Grissom, but he does know that once he has settled her into bed he's going to be making a long-distance phone call. He doesn't care what time it might be in Paris, he's going to call (and keep calling if he doesn't answer) and demand that Grissom tell him what the hell he did to Sara to cause her this much pain.

"Sara?" He makes sure he keeps his voice gentle and comforting, so as not to make her jump suddenly. She doesn't say anything, but he can feel a small shudder run through her body. "I'm going to let you go now," he speaks slowly, as if talking to a young child, as he disentangles himself from her.

He studies her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, mascara tracks streak down both sides of her face which is pale as moonlight. The expression she wears, he can't even begin to describe it. The pain and desolation he sees reflecting in her eyes, it very nearly scares him.

"I need to clean up the glass and the broken ceramic," he finally manages. "I don't want you to get hurt, just stay right here where there isn't anything and then I'll help you up. Okay?"

She doesn't respond.

He stands and slowly makes his way into the kitchen, carefully avoiding stepping on anything sharp. In the refuge of his kitchen, he takes a few moments just to breathe when he realizes his hands are shaking. He goes over to the sink, splashing some cold water on his face, before swiping the back of his shirt sleeve across his face. Locating the broom and dustpan, he grabs a plastic grocery sack before walking out again.

_Five minutes hadn't even lapsed_. That's what he'll think later; he hadn't even left Sara alone for five minutes.

It ceases to matter though, because the sight he sees when he returns to the living room makes his heart stop a beat before racing so rapidly that it feels like it just might beat right out of his chest.

She had crawled just a few inches away and picked up a jagged piece of ceramic, digging it into her wrists – she hadn't even made a sound. She's lying on her side now and her eyes are closed. He wants to believe she's just sleeping, and he could have too, if it wasn't for the blood spilling forth and mixing with the thousands of little pieces of glass and ceramic surrounding her.

* * *

They took her to Desert Palms Hospital.

He tries to keep his hands from sweating and his knees from knocking together as the memories of all the past times he's been here filter through his mind like a bad movie. It had started with Holly, then him, next came Brass and Greg, followed by Sara.

It had been too late for Warrick, but he can't think about that right now though, not when he's sitting alone in the Emergency Room with Sara's blood staining his once-white shirt.

There had been so much blood, how is he ever going to get that image out of his mind? He had ridden to the hospital with her in the back of the ambulance, the EMTs' words not even penetrating his mind as he alternated between mentally cursing her for being so stupid and so selfish to praying that she would be all right.

She'd been unconscious when they arrived, how long had that been… thirty, forty, sixty minutes ago?

"Nick, we're here."

"Is she all right?"

Catherine and Greg. He must have called them he realizes belatedly. He can't remember doing so, just like he can't remember how he got from the back of the ambulance to sitting in the ER but he must have somehow because it's exactly where he is now.

"Have you got in touch with Grissom yet?" Catherine, again.

She sounds worried, and he wants to tell her it will be okay. But he's not sure about anything anymore so he doesn't say that.

Instead he looks up, still feeling like he's caught in a daze and that this really isn't happening, revealing to them his bloodstained shirt.

"Ohmygod," Catherine says, almost prayer-like as she collapses into the empty chair next to him.

"Is she all right?" Greg asks, repeating his earlier question. "Do you know anything yet? Have the doctors come out?" He remains standing; too nervous, too scared, too much of everything to sit down.

"She's lost a lot of blood; I don't know… she's back there now." He rubs a tired hand over his face, trying to focus on answering their questions while trying to push away the image of Sara bleeding out on his living room floor. It's like it's burned there, that image. "I've called Grissom's cell, repeatedly. No answer. I left messages to call back immediately. I tried calling the Sorbonne again but with the time difference and the language barriers, I couldn't get any information. We don't even know their apartment number, why didn't we ever ask? God, I mean—"

"Brass is trying to get a hold of him too," Catherine interjects quietly. "Brass, he'll…he'll handle it. Let's just think we'll hear from Grissom any second now, okay?"

Nick says nothing to that.

"What exactly happened?" Greg finally asks, even though he isn't sure he wants to know the details. He's mad at himself and blaming himself, because he hadn't seen this coming. Why hadn't he noticed something was off? Nick had, but no he… he had been too busy thinking about himself and wondering when, if ever, he would get treated like a CSI, and not a crazy lab tech playing at being serious.

"I don't even know, I mean she came home and I've been feeling like something's off," he begins before casting a sideways glance toward Catherine.

"Greg filled me in on your break room conversation the other day," she says.

He nods. "I asked about her and Grissom, if they were okay and the next thing I knew she was screaming all these nonsensical things and throwing things… crying and repeating over and over that he didn't leave her. I calmed her down... it took a while. And then I, I just wanted to clean up the mess, you know, so she wouldn't get hurt," he stops as he realizes how stupid that sounds considering where they're sitting now. "I shouldn't have left her, I shouldn't have. I came back and she…and she…" He doesn't have it in him to finish the sentence.

"Nick, it's not your fault," Catherine murmurs, laying a comforting hand on his back.

"Tell that to someone who'll actually believe it, Catherine, because right now… while she's back there," he counters quietly, pointing to the double doors that lead to where Sara is being treated, "I sure as hell don't. I can't." He stands abruptly and walks off, self-loathing running through his body and mixing with the worry and sickness that have taken up permanent residence in his stomach.

Without saying anything at all, Greg drops down into Nick's empty seat next to Catherine. Together they sit in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

Fifteen minutes pass before Nick returns, and seeing that Greg had taken his seat, he sits down in another empty one.

Nothing is said – no explanation for the blow-up or apology given – but nothing's needed to be said. They're all concerned, confused, and completely shaken.

And when Brass comes by shortly thereafter, all of them will think later that nothing could have ever prepared them for what he had come to say.

* * *

For the next seventy-two hours she's kept in a room by herself with only hospital personnel coming and going. They speak in medical jargon, 'brief psychotic disorder with obvious stressor' and 'denial, defense mechanism', but to her the words are meaningless, floating through the air like butterflies in the sky.

They tell her she needs to answer their questions, otherwise they can't help. She doesn't care though, nothing matters.

The walls are white, so blaring and bright that they almost hurt her eyes. There are no windows or curtains or pictures. The doctors who come in have on long, white lab coats, and they fill out white sheets of paper on little clipboards – not white, but a light blue plastic. And the pills, the pills they give her, they're white too.

She sleeps a lot; she finds it's easier not to think that way.

She isn't sure how much time passes, but finally she's moved into a private room. That's when in addition to a bevy of rotating nurses and doctors and Dr. Jane Feelgood, a psychiatrist – she wants to make some joke about her last name, but can't muster the energy or care – they come to see her. It seems like one of them is always coming and going.

After the first few visits of trying to engage her and her saying nothing, they stop trying. It doesn't mean they stop coming though. Instead, they come and rattle on about inane things that are of no consequence to her.

Under half-hooded eyes, she watches and stares mutely as one by one they come and go, while she remains, locked inside her private hell.

Catherine visits and talks about the latest celebrity gossip. She talks about Lindsey, and how her daughter is excited to go see a new movie about vampires and werewolves that's soon to be released in theaters. She talks about how much she loves some reality show, something about semi-famous people dancing (or trying to) with professional dancers – it's her guilty pleasure, she whispers as if it's some big secret and like they aren't the only two people in the room.

Greg stops by often, and he's always full of endless stories and lots of cheer. He tells her amusing anecdotes about spending summers with Nana and Papa Olaf. He tells her about the latest case he's working on. Occasionally he will ask her thoughts, and then he'll realize she isn't going to answer him and he'll move on and continue talking like nothing happened. He talks about the future too, making plans for the two of them – "when you get out, I'll take you…" or "when you come home again, we need to go…" and things like that.

Every other visit when Nick comes, he brings her a colorful assortment of new flowers before taking a seat next to her bed.

She almost breathes a sigh of relief when he comes through her hospital room door, because he usually doesn't say much. That is, until the day he brings in a book with him and starts reading from it.

_Chapter one. _

_Loomings._

_Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world…_

She's not sure why of all books he chose that one. He wouldn't have known the significance anyway. But for the first time since she's awakened here in the hospital, she feels something more than numbness. It's sharp and painful and it makes her feel as if her heart is being ripped out of her chest.

She quickly turns her back to him and listens as hot tears roll down her face, and she bites the bottom of her lip hard, drawing blood, to keep herself from sobbing aloud.

* * *

The next day, Nick returns to the hospital since neither Catherine nor Greg could make it by to visit. She's asleep when he enters her room with flowers in hand. This time, he's brought a bouquet of brightly colored gerbera daisies in cheerful shades of pink, yellow, and orange.

In the hour he's been there, a nurse has come and gone, and so has the dinner tray. He's standing by the window now, staring outside and watching the busy hustle of the world below. His mind is occupied, thinking about Sara, about Grissom, and how life is just so very _fragile_.

He knows he'll need to leave soon, so he can get something to eat before heading into work, but he doesn't want to go. Not just yet.

"Nick?"

Hearing his name spoken has never seemed sweeter than in this moment, and he's thankful his back's to her so she cannot see how relieved he really is. Saying a quick prayer of thanks, he composes himself and turns around.

He has a smile on his face as he walks to her bedside. "Welcome back," he murmurs.

"H-how long have I been here?" Her throat is raspy and her vocal cords feel scratchy and sore, like she hadn't used them in a while. She feels almost like she's wakening from a coma, and maybe in some ways, it is.

He grabs the chair near the end of the bed, pulling it closer to her, and takes a seat. "You've been here for thirteen days."

"Can I…" Her voice breaks; she's having a hard time speaking. She moistens her lips, finding them dry and cracked, and he notices.

"Hold on, let me get you some ice chips." At the opposite end of the room, there's her rolling lunch tray and on it is the large bucket of crushed ice he had gotten earlier for his soda. The ice hadn't melted much, and he places a small amount into a Styrofoam cup. "Do you want me to help you sit up? Would that be easier?" he asks.

She nods and he raises the bed until she motions for him to stop. He places another pillow behind her back, and he takes great care to not hurt her in any way as he tries to make her comfortable. There are bandages on her wrists and arms, and she still has the IV they started that very first day.

When her hands start to shake seconds later, without saying anything or making a big deal of it, he takes the cup from her and helps her with the ice chips.

"Thanks," she says when she's had enough, "that's good."

"Let me know when you want some more." He places the almost-empty cup on her bedside table. "I should probably call the nurse," he starts, picking up the hospital remote with the 'call nurse' button on it.

"Not... not yet, please."

He studies her face for a moment and finally nods.

"Are they coming back?" she asks, a few seconds later. To his ears, her voice sounds unnaturally small and scared. "The men in white?"

There's a brief flash of confusion in his eyes before realization dawns as to what exactly she means. "No, they're not. You don't have to worry about that," he says.

He doesn't tell her how very close she had come though, that the doctors had told him if she didn't start talking soon they would move her to the psychiatric ward again and then start the paperwork for a more permanent relocation to a psych institution. He doesn't tell her how vehemently he had argued with the doctors or how scared he had been that they would stop humoring him – he overheard a nurse saying that – and do what they threatened to do.

"You're going to be okay."

She says nothing to that. Instead she takes in the bandages on her wrists, and she remembers the last day at Nick's place. Not everything, at least she doesn't think so. She just recalls bits and pieces, small flashes of what had happened.

"I'm sorry."

She says it so softly he doesn't hear her until she repeats herself.

"I'm so sorry."

"Shh, no. There's nothing for you to apologize for."

"How can you say that, after all those awful things I said to you... after throwing things and hitting you...and, and…"

"I just can," he murmurs. He explains to her the doctors believe she had suffered from something called brief psychotic disorder. Symptoms included hallucinations, delusions, and unusual behavior. "The doctors will be able to explain it better than I can."

She takes a few minutes to digest the information, before finally speaking again.

"It's Paris, you know," she begins and Nick feels his stomach clench tight.

He already knows – they all already know now – and he wishes he could yell 'stop, cut' like the director of a movie or press a 'fast forward' button, but he recognizes this moment is important. She needs to talk about what had happened, so he braces himself as he hears her voice, still weak from being unused, tell him what he already knew.

"It's Paris," she begins again, "not the streets of Las Vegas or New York… it's the city of love and bright lights and…" her voice catches. "It's not supposed to happen there, nothing _bad_ should happen there…" She turns to look at him then, her eyes bright with unshed tears, barely held at bay. "We argued the night before."

She can't say it yet. She doesn't want to, because somewhere deep inside of her, she realizes once she says it, admits it aloud to be the truth, there won't be any going back.

"Sara." Nick's voice, forever gentle. She shakes her head, stopping him.

"We argued about me coming back here. He didn't want me to. He didn't say it, but I know he was worried about me returning to this life without him. He was worried about being so far away, in case I needed him. He was just concerned, but I-I was stubborn. And for what? I wanted to come back to prove something. I had this, this _need_…_ this_ burning desire to return, so that when I left again – and I was always going to leave again – it would be on my terms. Not because I was running away from ghosts, or fears, or anything else."

He's watching her and there's so much emotion in his eyes that she has to look away. Her gaze lands on the newest bouquet of flowers Nick had brought her and she focuses on them instead. The tears in her eyes are still threatening to spill over and fall, and she tries to blink them away. She's afraid once she starts crying, she won't be able to stop. It will be(come) a flood.

"I'd gotten into the habit of waking up with him in the morning, as he prepared for his upcoming day lecturing. Sometimes I would stay in bed and just watch as he came in and out of the room, but most times, I would get up to join him in our little kitchen area and we would sit and have breakfast together. That morning, I didn't do either. Right before he had to leave, I heard him say my name but I pretended to be asleep. I felt the bed dip as he leaned down to give me a kiss, and I just kept my eyes closed."

Nick continues to quietly listen, watching her as she tries so hard to hold herself together, but all the while inside his heart is breaking for her. He thinks she looks so incredibly small and fragile in her big hospital bed.

"He told me he loved me before walking out the door, and I stayed angry with him. And I can't find a way to make time go back and change things… what I would give, what I would do… just to have that moment back," she whispers, her body trembling as she begins to lose the battle to hold in the tears.

"Sara." It's all he gets out, because everything coming to mind seems so clichéd, useless; _empty_. He lays a hand over hers instead, hoping that the simple touch could convey what words never could.

She looks down to where his hand covers hers, and then to the wedding and engagement rings adorning her left hand. The wedding ring she has worn for only four months. "They say everything happens for a reason, but how can I believe that? We were happy, we were starting our life together, and then…why did he have to-to…"

She cannot say it still. The words won't come.

"I don't know," he answers her honestly. "Maybe we're not supposed to understand. Maybe we're just supposed to have faith and to… and to accept and deal with whatever life throws at us as best as we possibly can."

"I don't want to accept it. I want to look up and see him coming through that door. I want to watch a baseball game with him, just because he loves it so much. I want-I want this just to have been a terrible dream, one in which I'll wake up any second now."

"I know, Sara. I know." He's still hurting too, and trying to deal himself, and Sara's pain is just so palpable that it cuts deep within him. He stands suddenly, wanting to escape, but knowing he won't leave her. He can't. "Sorry," he realizes he's startled her and says the first thing that comes to mind, "I'm just going to grab some Kleenexes for you."

When he returns with a box, she thanks him. The next few minutes are filled only with her trying to control her emotions and using the Kleenexes to wipe her face and blow her nose. Nick gives her a few moments alone, stepping toward the window again, seeing the streetlamps lit along the sidewalks that lead to the hospital's entrance.

"Remember what I said to you after you had been buried alive and rescued?"

He turns to her and nods, feeling another twist of pain inside his bones. It's something he would always remember. It's something he could never forget. "It was not your day to die. When it's your day, it's your day," he quietly recites verbatim.

"It's your day," she echoes, then shakes her head. "It wasn't supposed to be his day, damn it. It shouldn't have been his day," she whispers, drawing her knees up to her chest. "He wasn't supposed to leave me, not now, not like this. He told me once that he wanted to die from cancer, so he could say goodbye…"

She's crying again, completely powerless to stop the tears from coming.

"I didn't get to say goodbye either. I didn't get the chance to say how sorry I was for arguing with him, for not waking up to say _I love you_… did he even know how much I loved him? He's not here, and it's, it's…wrong. I can't imagine my life without him. I don't want to, not ever seeing him again… I can't even… I can't-can't…" She breaks all the way down then, locking her arms around her knees – not paying attention to the pain it causes her – and rocking back and forth.

Nick is there instantly, gathering her in his arms, and this time, she offers no resistance.

"He's dead, Nick. He's dead," she cries, finally saying the words aloud that she'd kept denying for so long. "What am I supposed to do now?"

_What am I supposed to do?

* * *

_

Note1: Title comes from the Mark Twain quote, "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt." In the ancient Egyptian language of hieroglyphics, the Nile means "great river."

Note2: The passage read by Nick is the opening of _Moby Dick_.

Note3: Other symptoms of brief psychotic disorder include disorganized thinking, problems with memory, disorientation or confusion, changes in eating or sleeping habits, and the inability to make decisions. I'm not a doctor, so please forgive any medical-related mistakes I've made throughout the story. (Or we can call it artistic license, either way.)


End file.
